


To Serve the Light

by InkuisitivSkins



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Assassin's Creed AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Eventual Romance, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-22 03:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13755249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkuisitivSkins/pseuds/InkuisitivSkins
Summary: The injustice in Amestris runs deep throughout the society and the government. After an unprovoked attack on his family by military police is thwarted by a swift and deadly organization, Miles decides that perhaps these are the people that will finally enact the change the country needs.  While he does decide to follow them, the creed is hardened and ruthless, two things that he is not. However, Olivier, the organization's secretive leader, believes he will eventually fit in well with the brotherhood, ultimately coming to work in the dark to serve the light.





	1. The Hidden Ones

**Author's Note:**

> Finally the Assassin's Creed AU is here ;A; I'm not sure how much I like this first chapter, I'm just really not feeling much of my writing recently, but I still wanted to at least get this out before I start working on askmeme drabbles and stuff. 
> 
> Still, I hope you guys like it :')
> 
> Also, Miles's sisters' names are courtesy of my friend @pumpkinpyre here on Ao3 <3

 

 

Having lived in a large, dense city like Central for the majority of his life, Miles had quickly been accustomed to the dirty looks he received.

His family was the only Ishvalan-mixed one he knew of in the area, and while he was proud of his heritage and how deep the Ishvalan blood was in his veins, he still kept to himself when it came to that aspect of his identity. Growing up, and even now, in his young adulthood, it seemed as if the world was against him.

His sisters did not experience as much hardship as he did, which he was deeply thankful for, despite them _all_ being a quarter Ishvalan. Given that he was the only one in the family who had inherited the dark skin, light hair, and crimson eyes, he did not mind bearing the brunt of the hate if it meant his sisters endured less of it.

Still, sometimes, it was too much to bear. He had taken a deep liking for the written word when in his teen years, and once he began writing, if found at the wrong place at the wrong time, his pages of thought and feeling would be ripped apart at the hands of a bigot. This happened twice before he learned to only keep his writing at home.

In doing this, he found himself falling into a shoddy writing career, and while the pay was not nearly good enough, he was doing what he loved. When able to, he would take odd manual labor jobs in order to help his older sister pay for their housing, where the three siblings lived together after their mother passed away due to a ravenous illness that had previously swept through the poorer streets of Central City, somewhat thanks to the severe lack of development on the local government’s part.

Despite the world seemingly at war around him, Miles always found solace when he was deep in his writing. It always brought him great peace, especially moments when both of his sisters were home with him and his worn journal. With this, he knew that they were both safe; not at school, or at work, where he wasn’t able to protect them from the prejudice.

Yet, he never thought such a day as this would come, his serenity shattered so quickly and severely.

The sound of glass breaking abruptly tore him from his deep thoughts, the involuntary flinch of his hand causing a large blot of ink to splash onto his paper.

He heard his younger sister scream, causing him to sit straight up in his seat, eyes wide. It felt as if his entire being lurched as his heart skipped a fearful beat, “Maisy?”

Scrambling to his feet, he listened; the sounds of his family’s belongings breaking and falling filled their small, humble home, yet his sibling was not heard a second time. Overcome with sudden fear, Miles stumbled over to the rickety stairs in the corner of the room, grabbing a large wooden pole as he nearly tripped his way to the floor on which the chaos was unfolding.

The pole wasn’t large, or heavy-- it had once been a piece of the railing that one would use to support themselves when going up and down the staircase. Miles had meant to replace it soon; he just did not have the time, or the energy. Whenever he wasn’t writing or spending time with his sisters, he was working. Because of this, most of their small home was in a similar state of disrepair. Their financial status was evident in the architecture and upkeep, yet it was still rather tidy, and treated with love. It _was_ all they had, after all.

When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, no one was in the room ahead of him, yet he could tell there was a commotion coming from the living room to his left. The area looked as if a tornado had blown through-- framed photographs were on the floor, their glass in shards; a bookcase looked like it had been forcefully knocked over, as well as a table upturned.

He didn’t want to entertain the thought, but without even putting much brain power into it, Miles knew why these people--whoever they are-- were here.

Practically leaping from the last stair to the nearby doorway, Miles sped to the direction of the fighting. Swinging his body into the other room, he finally was able to lay eyes on the intruders.

Three large men in military police uniforms were tearing the room apart, angrily attempting to reach Maisy, who was cowering under a desk. On the the side of the room, their older sister Gina was being restrained by another as she, her combative behavior the stark opposite of that of their youngest sibling, attempted to single-handedly fight off one of them. In the split second Miles had to hastily study the situation, he noticed her pick up four separate items, flinging them at the men as she screamed angrily, finally resulting in picking up a broom with her one free hand and swinging it at the man holding her back.

Without even thinking, Miles began fighting as well. Since Gina seemed capable of defending herself at the moment, he charged towards the three, swinging the arms that held the pole back behind his head before bringing it swiftly down onto one’s back.

Thankfully, years of odd manual labor jobs had given him some nice muscle, thus a good arm.

The one man faltered, the force not only giving him sharp pain, but sudden surprise as well-- the one upper-hand Miles briefly had over them. He fell forward onto his knees, forcefully catching himself on his hands. Drawing the pole back again, Miles took aim at another, yet this military policeman was aware of him now, and as the pole was brought back down, the man caught the attack on his forearm, parrying it.

He reared back, producing a fist, yet Miles saw it coming-- he brought up his own forearm, blocking the punch in a similar way. However, he didn’t notice the man on the ground lunging for his legs, grappling the Ishvalan man’s feet and causing him to lose his balance.

He fell, his hip painfully hitting the floor, and the pole falling from his grasp. Quickly, he attempted to kick the man off and stand, yet Gina’s scream from behind him caused everyone in his field of vision, including himself, to pause.

High on adrenaline, Miles couldn’t make out what she had said, but turning his head, he saw that the one police officer had both of her arms in his grasp now. He was successfully restraining her, and now, he had produced a gun from the holster at his hip-- and it was aimed at Miles.

“Put your hands behind your head,” the man spoke, his voice loud and stern. “I won’t hesitate.”

He still had fight left in him, but mindful of his sisters in the room, and not wanting them to have to see their brother’s head blown off, Miles did as he was told.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” Gina spoke up, her tone low. “We haven’t done anything, and you bastards know that! You can’t just barge into our home--”

“Führer’s given out Order 3065, so anyone who has anything to do with Ishvalans is to be imprisoned.”

Instantly, Gina began screaming again, yet Miles quickly hushed her, “Gina, stop. You’re making it worse.”

The policeman eyed him for a moment, “At least you’ve got a head on your shoulders, unlike your sister. Unfortunate for you, we were told that those who resist arrest need to be taken care of.”

He lifted the gun slightly, readying his shot. Miles was filled with sudden reluctance-- there was so much he wanted to do in life. He wasn’t even going to be able to tell his sisters he loved them.

The shot was aimed and at the ready, when the window to the man’s left shattered with an extreme amount of force, shards of glass slicing through the air.

Having recoiled at the sudden explosion of glass, like everyone else in the room, Miles didn’t see what exactly burst through the window. Quickly looking back up again, he saw a figure, cloaked in dark colors, slamming feet-first into the policeman. The attack succeeded in knocking him over, Gina quickly dodging out of his grasp and out of the way, as the newcomer swiftly and expertly caught themselves. Before the policeman could clamber to his feet once again, his pistol having escaped his grasp and now sitting out of reach, the figure took a knee on top of his chest.

Miles was not able to see their face, which was hidden beneath both a pointed hood and a cloth mask-- yet, he did unmistakably see the slight flex of their left hand, and the propulsion of a sharpened blade from the bulk of their vambrace.

In one moment, with zero hesitation, the blade was in the officer’s neck, and not a single sound was to ever leave him again.

The Ishvalan man watched in stunned silence, only until the sound of Maisy screaming behind him broke him out of his daze. Swinging around to look, he saw another policeman barrelling towards him, and without thinking, Miles lifted the pole again, taking several swings, his attacks connecting. The officer fell, and as he reached for his own pistol, Miles ducked down, retrieving a large shard of glass. In an adrenaline-fueled moment, the glass silenced this officer as quickly as the blade had hushed the first.

As he was grappling with the one, the other two soldiers finally grabbed a hold of Maisy’s arm, and in an attempt to flee without either of them losing their lives just as their comrades had, headed towards the exit with her, screaming, in tow.

Gina followed behind them, with the courageous intent of protecting her sister, but there was no need.

She watched, and Miles could see from his spot as he stood above the one officer’s body, as the two opened the door.

No light from the sunshine outside shone into their home; blocked by what may have been the largest body Miles had ever seen in his twenty-three years of life.

The man, in similar garb to the first figure, yet not near as secretive in his identity, towered over the two; his height nearly matching that of the doorframe. He already had a pistol drawn and ready, and he did not even allow the two officers a moment to scream, or even contemplate their nearing end.

Maisy practically leaped into her sister’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably, as the two lifeless bodies almost simultaneously fell to the floor. In an equal, yet silent, state of shock, Gina held her sister close, staring at the carnage.

“Are you alright?” The large man asked, stooping somewhat to step inside the door. At the sign of movement, Gina immediately flinched, holding Maisy tighter against her protectively.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” The man, his features now visible as he stood inside their home, smiled, his voice friendly.

His features were rough and intimidating, matching his body type. His hair sat in a dark mohawk and a long braid, from what Miles could see, and a long and thin mustache adorned his face. Even more curiously, when the man raised his empty palms to show the young women he meant no harm, Miles took note of the metallic glint and shimmer of his right hand-- it was made of metal.

He knew the technology existed, yet they never saw such things in their part of the city-- while amputations were not that rare of a slight in the poorer areas, the newly-invented automail had only seemed like an enigmatic legend to him until now.

“We’ve been tracking those guys down the streets of the city for quite a while, we knew they’d make a move on you guys soon, but… Not this soon, I suppose,” he flashed them an apologetic grin, obviously trying to calm them down. “Normally, we’d try to intercept them before they got to you--”

“Who are you?” Miles asked; thankful for their interruption, yet his wariness was still heavily present.

The man straightened slightly; proudly, his smile unwavering, “We’re--”

The other visitor cleared their throat, silencing the other, and drawing Miles’s attention back over to them. He hadn’t even noticed them searching the body of the officer they had killed, until they straightened, stuffing a note into their pocket.

“Ah, _ehm_ , right,” the other said sheepishly. “Perhaps you three will learn someday. For now, it isn’t safe here, as I’m sure you know.”

He reached into his own pocket, though he produced nothing, causing him to pat his glutes with both hands, as if whatever he was looking for was somewhere else entirely.

Silently, their steps light and elegant, the other figure made their way to him, not bothering to acknowledge Miles nor his siblings.

As they stepped past him, Miles quickly tried to study all he could-- all he gathered was the striking, icy blue of their locked-forward irises, the long, dark eyelashes, and their bare hand as they briefly lifted it to adjust the leather pauldron strapped to their right shoulder.

The hand was feminine, with an unfamiliar symbol tattooed on the ring finger.

As the man attempted to look for whatever he searched for, the other stranger calmly slipped their own hand into one of his pockets, effortlessly producing a small folded letter.

“Oh! There it is,” He smiled, taking it from them before opening it.

“Our colleagues have set up a refuge for Ishvalans not far away. It’s just across where our border meets the desert, and it’s off the map and fortified. We’ve been trying to send as many people there as possible, to get them out of harm’s way here,” he spoke, handing the note over.

Briefly, Miles scanned it. It detailed several routes from within Central that lead directly East, to an uninhabited area between Amestris and Xing. In addition, it designated several resting points deemed safe by whatever organization this was, as well as locations for those seeking asylum to stock up on supplies.

Miles’s eyebrows knit together suspiciously. He wanted to trust them; he often tried to see the good in people, yet lately, that was a foolish trait to have. He knew he had to keep himself and his sisters safe, “How can we trust you? You just broke into our home and murdered three men.”

“You murdered one, too,” the smaller stranger spoke up. Her eyes glared over at his own red gaze, scrutinizing.

Miles blinked. She wasn’t wrong. It just hadn’t set in yet.

“I mean,” the other man shrugged his broad shoulders casually. “They would have killed you and taken away your two sisters if not for us-- which is why we advise you leave the city as soon as possible.”

His tone suddenly grew grave, his voice void of the warmth it had just previously, “If you stay here for even a day longer, they’ll send more men after you, in greater numbers. I don’t believe you have much of a choice.”

Miles wanted to argue, yet even when he opened his mouth to speak, he had no words to retort with. Deep down in his gut, he knew they were right. There had been signs for _weeks_ ; harbingers, in different forms, warning them to leave. This had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, Miles now understood.

“I believe them,” Maisy said, her voice still soft with fear, and near-hoarse. “If we go anywhere else in Amestris, they’ll still be able to find us.”

Gina nodded solemnly, “Being such a militant state, there’s soldiers and police in every town we’d find ourselves in… The Führer’s reach knows no bounds, so long as we’re in the country he rules.”

He didn’t want to believe it. Silently, Miles lowered his eyes, resigned.

“Pack your things, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going,” the man spoke up again, watching as his companion silently exited the house. He turned to follow her, “I’m sorry you three have to go through this.”

“Sorry won’t fix the situation,” Miles murmured.

With one final glance and a smile, the man ducked through the doorframe.

“That’s why _we_ exist.”

 

The girls seemed excited to leave. Miles, however, had enough reluctance for the three of them.

Their mother always had an implausible, monumental dream of making it big in Amestris. She wanted to be someone worth remembering, her legacy known in Amestrian history books, her likeness fondly referenced centuries after she was dead and gone.

However, her reputation quickly collapsed when people found out who her husband was-- or, rather, what ancestry was in his blood. As a result, after his death-- which was murder-- she was plunged to the bottom of the food chain with her children.

Her fiery personality never left her, yet Miles always knew the way she talked about the dreams she once had. It was solemn, and hopeful, yet she knew they were now unattainable. It was resignation, calm, but melancholy. As a result, Miles wanted to carry on her dream-- perhaps, in his writing, he could draw attention to the issues that plagued their country, becoming famous himself, and causing his mother’s name not to be forgotten to the sands of time.

His own optimism had betrayed him, and he soon faced the _worst_ of the issue. Even now, the country was forcing him to leave the land his mother had hoped to help flourish.

He felt as if they were leaving their mother’s dreams behind, and, in essence, their mother.

Miles was grateful that his sisters did not share his doubts and blues. They seemed excited to not only travel, see new places, and meet new people; but also to live somewhere safe for once. Even so, Miles couldn’t help but feel a tug towards home.

Now, more than ever, he wanted to be the change, the voice. Every other effort he had witnessed to try and quell the struggle had proven unsuccessful, until the strange organization intervened. The man had been right; without them, Miles would be dead, and Maisy and Gina would be gone.

Perhaps this, while it wasn’t writing, was the change he had been looking for.

They wasted no time in packing their belongings, after some short convincing on the sisters’ part. The following evening, as the two girls stayed at home to finalize the beginning of their exodus, Miles slipped out to do some last-minute supplying. Under his own hood to conceal his appearance, he bought food and other small items with the little money he had.

Even as he tried to push the thoughts out of his mind, the tug remained. He didn’t want to leave-- he knew he could not. But his sisters needed to be safe.

He prayed for a sign to reassure his reluctance.

The whinny of a horse drew his attention to the opposite side of the crowded street. They were a rare sight in the city, _especially_ the poorer areas, so they always drew everyone’s eyes whenever one was present. They were a symbol of wealth, power, and beauty-- all things scarce in the outer edge of the city.

Come to think of it, the only people Miles knew had horses in Central were the members of the illustrious and distinguished Armstrong family.

Looking up at the rider as the horse drew closer, Miles stepped out of the way along with several other onlookers. He recognized the horse’s master; she was the Armstrong’s eldest daughter, her long, curled blonde hair a dignified symbol of her purebred lineage, along with her dress and demeanor.

Her eyes were glued on the street below and ahead of her as she mindfully made sure the horse wasn’t going to step on anyone; a thoughtful and careful gesture not many of her status would have bothered with. With piqued curiosity, Miles began to silently question her presence in this part of town. Perhaps she had business with one of the outer cities and she was just making her way through.

Immediately, his thoughts were interrupted when his red gaze fell on her hands, gripping at the white horse’s reins as she guided its path away from the masses.

His heart leapt into his throat and he felt as if he had just been stabbed, once he saw the tattoo on her finger.

He thought he had recognized those eyes before. No one else had such frigid icicles in their vision as the young, regal Armstrong heir. Miles had never gotten a close look at her before; yet even from afar, the resemblance was uncanny.

He opened his mouth to call her name, before remembering that he didn’t actually know it-- plus, he realized with a quick flinch that the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. Swiftly, he wound and slid his way through the crowds that filled the street, where the horde that had briefly parted for the horse’s passing was already solidifying once again.

He nearly tripped, but managed to witness the horse passing into an alleyway. Thanks to the sheer compactness of the city, he was at the alley’s entrance shortly.

However, once he set foot into the dimly-lit path, only the horse stood at the end of it. Its head held at a calm height, its ear twitched as it heard him enter.

Even though he knew there was no other exit besides the one behind him towards the street, Miles still felt himself looking back and forth, dumbfounded, as if she had somehow disappeared into one of the many cracks or holes in the walls around him.

He took several cautious steps forward, when a light sound reverberated from behind him as something hit the stone underfoot. He froze, unable to even swing around to look, before the cold metal of a blade met his throat, the warmth of a smaller body pressing into his back.

Expecting a military policeman, or a bandit of sorts, he felt a strange calm when he heard her voice, despite how low and dangerous it was.

“Why are you following me?”


	2. The Creed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This new chapter came out quick, huh? :D I'm already having quite a lot of fun with this fic, so I hope you guys enjoy it <3 I'll probably work on some askmemes next so I'm afraid this rapid updating won't be a common thing, but I'm still very pleased with how quickly this one wrote itself <3

“I can’t leave Central,” Miles steadied his voice, swallowing the lump in his throat, the cold bite of the blade against his jugular.

“ _Tch_ ,” the woman behind him replied. “You’re a fool to think you’re safe here. After the military is sent to get you, you never leave their list. You’re a high-priority target for them, now more than ever.”

“My sisters will go to the east,” the Ishvalan continued. “But I want to join you. Please.”

He felt the blade in her hand move away from him slightly; knowing she was hesitating.

She finally removed the knife, “No.”

Surprised at how quick her answer came, Miles watched, slightly dumbfounded, as she moved around him, paying him no more mind as she went to retrieve her horse.

“Why not?”

“Do you seriously have to ask that?” She said, shooting him a look at she slipped the knife into a pouch on the saddle. “You don’t know who we are, what we stand for, what our goals are… We could be worse than the government, for all you know.”

“Why would an organization like that go out of its way to provide asylum for people? You talk as if the military is something to be feared and not contested, yet you readily oppose it!” Miles said, trying to block the path that led back to the street, as if the horse could not just easily trample him to get past.

“The military _is_ something to be feared,” the Armstrong frowned. “I, of all people, would know that.”

He knew she spoke of her family’s strong ties to the military. If his memory served, her father and grandfather were generals, while one of her siblings was currently serving. This caused the curiosity within him to grow; why would she be against the military if her own family was in it?

“So, you tell me with clarity; you’re worse than the government.”

Her annoyed silence said it all.

Miles rest his fists against his hips, “So?”

“You don’t have it in you,” she continued, her voice matter-of-fact as she calmly mounted the horse.

“I can kill!”

“You killed _one_ man, in self defense,” the young woman glared down at him, her eyes just as sharp and dangerous as the dagger she had wield. “It doesn’t set in, in the moment. After the dust settles, it starts to haunt you. That man probably had a family-- what if you just made a nice, young woman a widow? I do not hesitate when it comes to cutting men down. That makes you and I different, don’t you think?”

She was right, Miles realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Perhaps we _aren’t_ so different from the military.”

“No,” Miles cut her off. “I may not know what organization you belong to, but… I still stand firm in my belief. The military wouldn’t go out of its way to help people. I used to think they were there to protect us, but now… Those men were obviously cruel, they could have just not followed orders.”

“It’s never that easy,” she replied, her tone telling him it was the end of the conversation. However, he wasn’t finished.

“Then show me.”

The blonde snorted in amusement, “Show you what?”

“There must me some way of initiation into your organization, even if you’re oh-so-secretive. So just tell me what I need to do, show me what you’re about, and then I’ll make my judgement from there.”

“I’m already being generous with you,” she scoffed, gently nudging her heel into the horse’s stomach, signalling for it to move forward. “Anyone else would have offed you for bringing this up in public, especially with my identity not hidden. I really should just kill you so you don’t go blabbing to anyone about what I’m a part of.”

“Then do it,” Miles stood firm, in front of the horse. It hesitated, whinnying quietly and gently tossing its head, as its master urged it forward, despite there being a human blocking his path.

She allowed the horse to stop, her glare piercing through the Ishvalan man, her silence deadly.

Finally, she clicked her tongue again, her horse moving, and Miles reluctantly stepping out of her way, “You’re insolent, aren’t you?”

This, however, just served to prove everything he had just said.

Yet, without another word, she led her horse out of the alley, and continued on her path back down the street.

Oh, but Miles wasn’t finished.

He couldn’t help but notice how she led her horse down a certain street, nor how she took a strange turn once at the end of said street. Rather than taking the path that brought one to the outskirts of the city, she looped back around.

He also couldn’t help but notice how she was deliberately taking an odd route to wherever her destination was; he had read enough crime and mystery novels in his days to know that she, like a prey animal walking in circles, covering its tracks to confuse a predator, was calmly throwing off whoever may be following her.

Unlucky for her, it was not an enemy who was doing so, but he. He carefully trailed behind her, maintaining a very stark distance between them, so that if she turned her head to look, he would be lost in the crowds.

Eventually, she came to a small stable area in the quieter part of town. This area was not poor, but definitely more rural and spread-out than the inner city. Still, to Miles’s surprise, she tied the horse up before seemingly heading back into the city, without doing anything else.

Confused, but determined, he went on after her.

He began to grow tired of this chase, and with a frustrated frown, he wondered if she knew he was still following her. Still, even if she did, he would not give in.

She ducked into another alley once back inside the city, and hastening his pace to make sure she didn’t disappear, Miles peered around the corner. She was nowhere to be seen-- until, in the light of the setting sun, he saw her foot slip out from view from atop one of the walls that made the alleyway.

His eyebrows furrowed-- so she had _climbed_ out of sight earlier. He was still prepared to go after her, yet how was he supposed to scale a wall?

Stepping inside the path, he went over to the wall to examine it. From afar, it seemed normal, yet up close, cracks and uneven bricks were evident.

Perhaps, they were just uneven enough to get a foothold on.

Carefully, he hooked his fingers onto one of the higher-up bricks, trying to get a good grip. It was difficult, but eventually, he was confident enough to attempt to pull himself up.

His body type did not lend itself well to the task like the Armstrong’s did. While she seemed to be petite and light, he was muscular, but the muscle was dense and practical; making climbing without any prior practice a tough feat to accomplish. Still, he did not give up-- slowly, he began to scale the wall, utilizing the uneven bricks and larger cracks in the architecture to do so.

Before long, he had made his way up to the roof, his fingertips raw and bloodied, his biceps burning.

He took a moment to allow his back to hunch, his palms braced against his knees as he caught his breath. The walls in the inner city were very tall, so he was beat-- but he still knew he shouldn't take time to rest. Straightening, he looked around.

Miles had a very nice view of the sunset from here-- from behind the rooftops that surrounded him, he could see the darkening of the cloudless sky to the east, accompanied by shades of orange and pink to the west. A flash of movement caught his eye, and turning quickly, he noticed the Armstrong running along a nearby rooftop. Briefly, she paused before maneuvering herself off of it so that she was hanging onto its corner, her feet against the building’s wall.

Her body light, her movements swift and calculated, she slipped into an open window.

Miles nearly tripped over himself. _What the hell is she doing? Is she trying to get me to fall of this roof and die?_

He blinked, his expression flat. She probably was, come to think of it. Nevertheless, against his better judgement, he continued in his pursuit.

The next building over was not attached to the one he was on, so between them lay a narrow alley. As a result, determined to not waste time finding a way around, Miles backed up, getting a head start before he leaped.

To his surprise, he nailed the landing, allowing for a surge of pride to blossom in his chest. Perhaps he had it in him to join them, after all.

All courage and hope in him, however, dissolved once he swung himself down into the window, coming face-to-face with the large man from before.

“Long time no see, eh?” He shot Miles a big, toothy grin.

Miles was a second short of screaming.  

The man gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder before turning to the doorway behind him, “See, Liv? Told you he’d follow you! You owe me some dinner, don’t you think?”

Peering around him, Miles spotted the blonde leaning against the doorway, her demeanor the utter opposite of her comrade’s-- cold and unamused.

“Buccaneer?” She piped up.

“Yes?”

“Shut the hell up.”

“You… Knew I would follow you?” Miles asked, still slightly in shock from seeing his life flash before his eyes in the form of a man twice his size bearing down on him.

“For a bit, but I thought you’d give up,” she frowned.

“You’re perceptive,” the man named Buccaneer beamed down at him, patting him on the shoulder a second time, as if they were good friends. “When she came in and told me you had been following her, I knew _that second_ that you must be pretty smart. How’d you recognize her?”

Miles turned back to the woman, studying her for a moment. He left out the part about her eyes, since it seemed to sappy for the likes of these hardened people, “The tattoo on your finger. What does it mean?”

At that, she crossed her arms, her left hand being the one she tucked against her chest, hiding it and the tattoo.

“It’s our symbol,” Buccaneer took the liberty of telling him, seeing that she had no plan to.

This caused Miles to purse his lips, “Well, I successfully followed you here. I think that warrants you giving me a chance.”

Clicking her tongue, she straightened in the doorway. She spoke as she turned to leave, “Tell him.”

It was almost as if Miles could feel Buccaneer brighten at his side as the woman shut the door behind her.

“I’m sorry about her,” was the first thing he said, to Miles’s surprise. Curious, he looked up at the taller man.

He invited Miles to take a seat, using his right, metallic hand to gesture to an empty chair in the seemingly normal-looking room. The Ishvalan obliged.

“Olivier can be,” he inhaled, searching for words as he took his own seat, the old chair creaking slightly as he did so. “Difficult.”

“Yeah, she’s _charming_ ,” Miles scoffed, the sarcasm eliciting a laugh from his conversation partner.

“Better than her being soft,” Buccaneer smiled, leaning back comfortably in his seat. “We’d be nothing without her.”

As he leaned backwards, Miles leaned forward slightly, “Can you _please_ tell me who you are, now that I’m here?”

Buccaneer gave him a small smile, “Just assassins.”

“There’s _got_ to be more than that.”

“We go by a lot of names, actually. To us, we’re a brotherhood of assassins, but others simply call us the Hidden Ones, plus other things. We follow and live by a creed, to protect people and preserve free will in Amestris.”

“Sounds rather… cultish, in some aspects.”

“Oh, no, no,” he lifted his metal hand dismissively. “There’s no worship involved. Just a code we live by.”

“So, you just protect people…?”

“Well, that’s the higher meaning of it,” Buccaneer straightened. “There’s those in the military who wish to corrupt the government from the inside out, tightening the iron fist it has on the free people, ultimately leading to complete control over humanity. That is how they wish to attain peace, even though there’s nothing peaceful about that, don’t you think?”

Miles simply nodded in agreement.

“They start with the removal of who they deem to be threats to their perfect order. But I imagine you’re familiar with that.”

Ishvalans, in their religion, held their god Ishvala as the highest authority, Miles knew. Even though he did not worship Ishvala like pure-blooded Ishvalans did, he was aware that they would never accept the government to be the highest entity. That was why the culling began.

It made sense now.

“They’re already descending on Ishval as we speak,” Buccaneer sighed. “It’s not even about taking prisoners any longer. You would have surely been killed if you were taken away; they want to avoid public deaths in Amestris for as long as they can. If you were in Ishval, however…”

Miles looked away, not needing to hear it.

“That’s why we’re called Assassins,” Buccaneer continued. “In order to achieve our ultimate goals of wiping out our long-lived opposition for good, we keep to the shadows, preferring stealth assassinations over warfare. It minimizes civilian casualties, and we’d be nothing if we killed those we were trying to protect.”

Miles paused for a moment, speaking softly after his contemplation, “What is your creed?”

The other man smiled, “Olivier said you wanted to join us.”

He earned a small, determined nod in reply.

“Then maybe you should ask her yourself,” he stood, raising his arms and stretching for a beat. “Follow me, I’ll show you around.”

Nodding, a surge of hope in his heart, Miles stood, following Buccaneer out the door.

 

The building seemed like a normal, higher-end house, until they went down a floor. Then, it was unlike anything Miles had ever seen.

The rooms were large, and he quickly deduced that their hideout was several buildings put together. The lighting throughout every room was minimal, staining the walls and shelves of books and artifacts a red hue. Despite having only been there for a few minutes, the air in the den was warm and inviting, yet seemingly sparse population-wise, save for Buccaneer and Olivier, who was still nowhere to be seen.

As they passed by rooms, Miles had difficulty listening to Buccaneer as he described each of them. He was entranced by everything he saw.

One room seemed to be a small library of sorts, and judging by what little he heard Buccaneer say, it sounded as if it was near-full of historical texts. One was stocked full with more weapons and armor pieces than Miles had ever seen in his life. Another room was dark, filled with beds, with one seemingly occupied.

“That’s our resident doctor,” Buccaneer spoke softly. “She also serves as our historian, so she’s been up all night pouring over some texts we recovered recently. If you ever sustain injury, don’t ever go to a normal doctor-- our secret could easily be blown.”

“How?” Miles asked, politely keeping his voice down as Buccaneer quietly shut the door.

“Well, say you took a bullet from a military officer. Perhaps your doctor was well-versed in the military; if they saw that the bullet belonged to a army-grade weapon, you could be seen as guilty before you even had a chance to make up a lie about it.”

He had never thought of that, Miles realized with a blink.

“We also have a man here who serves as a mechanic for me,” Buccaneer continued. “But he’s at our main headquarters right now.”

“Where is that?”

“Here’s where we eat. Very important,” Buccaneer said, gesturing to a kitchen area. “Our main base of operations is in an abandoned military fort north of North City. While it’s very safe, it’s also far away from our targets, which is why Olivier decided to permanently move some of us closer to the enemy.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little risky?”

“That’s part of the point,” he smiled at the Ishvalan man. “We’re where they would never expect to find us-- right in their own backyard.”

Miles seemed to have a nervous look about his face, so Buccaneer continued.

“They know we exist, but since we aren’t a big and loud militant organization trying to attack them out in the open, they don’t know our numbers, or how brave we are. If anything, they think we’re somewhere between our actual base and here; just out of sight, but still within reach.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“Olivier can explain that to you, too.”

He opened another door, loudly declaring once he set foot inside, “Olivier, the fresh meat is here!”

Miles stepped in behind him, peering into the room to see it filled with cabinets and files. In the middle sat a large desk, filled with large, numerous stacks of papers. Behind the desk sat Olivier, who seemed to have been reading said papers before a large man loudly barged through her door.

“Buccaneer, _please_.”

“Sorry, sorry,” He said, seemingly used to the conversation, as if it had been spoken before many a time. “I think it’s your turn to talk to our friend here.”

“Done already?” She peered up at them. Abruptly, she stood.

“Yes ma’am,” Buccaneer beamed.

Her blue eyes bore right through Miles, “You, come with me.”

Nodding, he followed her out the door on the opposite end of the room, holding his head high. It seemed as if she were the one he needed to make an impression with, judging by how casual Buccaneer had been. Something told him that appearances didn’t matter to her, though.

They made their way up a new set of stairs in silence, until Olivier broke the silence.

“So, what did the big lug leave for me to tell you?”

“He told me to ask you about how you knew so much about the military, and what your creed was.”

She paused, glancing back. This time, her eyes did not burn with something like contempt, but they twinkled with an investigative gleam as she regarded him.

The silence was deafening, so Miles spoke up again, “How does one join your brotherhood?”

His question succeeded in breaking her stare, as she turned back around and continued up the stairs. It took _too much_ effort for Miles to make his sigh of relief silent.

“Our creed has stood for centuries. Just about as long as government corruption has existed, there has been a force to combat it in one form or another. Many are born into the creed, and when the time is right, the oaths will be taken and the roles will be passed on to one’s kin. Other times, the creed finds you.”

“No one comes looking for it?”

“Not unless they’re initially found by the creed,” she replied, walking. “You may have come to seek us out, but don’t forget that _we_ revealed ourselves to _you_ first.”

Miles nodded, though her back was turned to him, so she didn’t see the acknowledgement.

“People are often affected by the creed and what it stands for in one way or another. For many people, they experience a hardship that leads it to reveal itself, and wishing to stand with it, they join the cause.”

It was at this, he deemed that she must have known he would come to them all along.

“So, why do you know so much about the military?”

“You’ll learn someday.”

Miles scoffed, immediately tensing in fear of her lashing out at him. However, she remained quiet, until the stairs led up to a door.

She opened it, revealing that they were now on the roof of their building. The sky was now bathed in darkness on one side, with the west still showing the colors of the setting sun.

Miles sighed softly, “The sun has set on Ishval.”

He suddenly felt Olivier’s eyes on him, causing him to glance at her and return her gaze.

She blinked calmly, focused, “Why do you wish to join the Assassins?”

Miles, turning away, had thought long and hard about the subject. Everything had happened so quickly; he knew he had a reason, he just didn’t know how to fully articulate it quite yet.

“I was always raised to believe that the military was there to protect us. The soldiers, from outside invaders, and the police, from criminals on the inside…” He sighed softly, Olivier stepping forward to the edge of the roof.

He followed her without being asked, as she got a better look at the sunset.

“My father was killed because of my family’s ties to Ishval, and then my family was plunged into poverty. I was about three years old, so I don’t remember much… But my mother always wanted Amestris to be something great. She wanted to leave her mark on it, and she always wanted to believe that it was a good country, even despite how badly the government treated us… It was after she died that I lost hope in it. I wanted to write, to maybe get the Ishvalan voice out there in the media, but it never really turned out…”

He looked up at her, their blue and red sights meeting. “I still want to be the Ishvalan voice in Amestris, and I can’t be that if I flee the country. I will do what I must to keep the equality, even if that means killing, so long as I’m killing the people who wish to disrupt the peace.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“I’m aware. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to join your cause. I want to make this country safe for everyone.”

Olivier turned away, sighing softly, “You’ll be beaten and bloodied by the end of it. Not everyone makes it through training, in a organization fueled by death.”

“I’m prepared for that.”

She stared out at the sunset, yet Miles’s eyes were trained on her. He looked at her eyes; the things that led him to the brotherhood. He had recognized them even before he saw her tattoo; he had seen them before the incident, and they had never left his mind from the first time he had witnessed them. In them, the reflection of the setting sun warmed the once-frigid blues.

They were beautiful.

“We work in the dark to serve the light. We are Assassins. Nothing is true, everything is permitted.”

The prepossessing eyes turned to him, wise and sagely, “Do not forget those words. You will go through training, a rite of passage, and initiation, once your training is complete. Do you understand?”

Miles nodded, his heart thudding.

“Then it is time for your first lesson. Hide in plain sight. Only true Assassins are characterized by the art of materializing out of thin air, to then perform their assassination, only to disappear into crowds, or buildings, of whatever is at your disposal. It is the supernatural illusion in which we earn one of our names, as the Hidden Ones.”

He nodded again.

“Are you ready?”

His nod was vigorous, excited, and hopeful.

Until she, with one hand, pushed him off the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. 
> 
> Just kidding :3c


	3. The Genesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't felt that great writing recently, and while I really wanted to get my remaining two askmemes done before starting on this next chapter, I just really wanted to continue it. I promise I'll do the askmemes next ;w;
> 
> Please don't hesitate to leave a kudos and/or comment if you enjoyed <3

Miles’s life flashed before his eyes. There were so many things he had wanted to do; places he wanted to go. He always dreamed of visiting the countryside of the east, of publishing a novel, of finding a nice and beautiful girl, of marrying and raising a family with her…

He never knew his journey would have ended at the hands of a grumpy blonde woman a head shorter than him, blue gaze cold and remorseless as death itself. Dying at a ripe old age while surrounded by loved ones was always his idea of demise, but now he was going to get _pushed off a roof like an idiot_ , and frankly, he was embarrassed.

Until he suddenly wasn’t-- mostly due to the air getting knocked out of him as he landed ass-first into a large pile of straw.

He sat ungracefully in the substance that had broken his fall, dazed and dumbfounded for a moment, before a flicker of movement above him caught his eye. Looking up, he saw Olivier’s blonde head poking out from the side of the roof where he had just fallen.

“Congratulations,” she called down to him, her voice less than congratulatory, “You’ve survived your first lesson.”

He sputtered for a moment, attempting to spit out a single straw, “You tried to kill me!”

“If I was trying to kill you, you would have been dead before you even had a chance to follow me.”

Miles finally succeeded, the straw flying from him in a wad of spit.

“That’s gross, Princess likes to snack from there whenever I ride her up here.”

“What do you mean?” He looked up once again, white eyebrows furrowed as he strained his voice to call back to her.

“In addition to passing your first test, you also just found our back door, and where the horses sometimes like to hang out. Hurry along now, you’re running out of the little daylight you have left.”

With that, the strands of golden silk disappeared as she ducked back out of sight. Curious as to what she meant, and determined to keep still for a moment longer to relieve the pain in his tailbone, he peered around him, craning his neck to glance at the building he had just exited.

Behind him sat an inconspicuous door, labelled with a single dark marking that crudely matched the tattoo on the blonde woman’s finger.

One he was sure she was gone, he sighed, lifting himself up out of the straw with some effort. He stumbled for a moment, his lower back sore, before he was able to straighten. Taking a moment to swipe some straw from his behind, he noticed that he was in a small, closed-off alleyway.

It was then, with a sinking feeling as he walked towards the end of the alley, that he didn’t know where in the city he was.

He hoped he would be able to make it back in time.

Once out of the alley, he glanced around in an attempt to get his bearings in regards to where he was. His surroundings seemed rather unfamiliar, until he caught sight of the large, green Amestrian flags that flew above Central Command.

With the large government building serving as a nice landmark to guide his way home, he started his short journey back.

 

“ _Miles_!” Gina nearly yelled upon his quiet entry through the front door. He flinched slightly, having fully been expecting her anger, as he took in the image of his two sisters-- both had donned hooded cloaks to conceal their identities on their trek, and both seemed to have gathered what little belongings they wished to take, judging by the small-but-packed rucksacks upon their backs.

“Sorry--”

“We were worried _sick_!” Gina started up again, fists balled up as they rest on her hips.

“Is everything okay?” Maisy asked, her voice soft, and the complete opposite of her big sister’s. “You’re really late, did something happen?”

Miles shook his head, carefully removing the bag that had been strapped across one of his shoulders, “Here’s the food I promised I would get for you.”

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Gina took the bag from him, “For _us_? You mean the three of us, Miles.”

In turn, he smiled apologetically, “You two know the way to the first waypoint, right? Just take the back roads, don’t go the way of the Command building.”

“Miles,” Gina repeated his name, the anger dissipating from her gaze, leaving only confusion and worry. “You’re… Coming with us. Aren’t you?”

He shook his head, Maisy’s expression falling, “I’m going to join the people who saved us.”

“You can’t!” Maisy suddenly said, her voice raised slightly. “It’s dangerous, you’ll get yourself killed! You don’t know how to fight!”

“I know you don’t understand,” Miles sighed, lowering his gaze, not wanting to be met with the tears from Maisy that were surely incoming. “But this is the opportunity I’ve always dreamed of getting. I want to make this country a better place for people like us, and since no one else is making any changes in the government… We’ll have to do it ourselves.”

Maisy was silent, so Miles looked back up at her, resolve in his voice, “I know I’m not a fighter, but they’ve stepped too far. Peaceful protest and movements can’t stop them at this point. They’ve declared war on people who are different, and while I’d love to think that the pen is mightier than the sword in this circumstance, the pen has no merit if no one is willing to read what it has to write.”

It was Maisy’s turn to lower her gaze, and Miles knew she was beginning to understand. Thus, he continued, “The Assassins do everything they can to spill as little civilian blood as possible. Maybe, through seeing the work we do, people will believe there is a chance for equality to happen. Once that faith is there, then their voices will be heard louder than those of the government and the military.”

Gina gently set a hand on her sister’s shoulder, looking down at her as she spoke, her voice soft, “Mother wouldn’t want Ishvalans and those who believe in equality to have to suffer. Maybe Miles is right, don’t you think…?”

It was when Maisy nodded, that Miles felt a strange wave of calm wash over him.

A calm which only grew stronger once Gina smiled up at him, her expression compassionate, “Will you at least come with us to the edge of the city?”

Returning her smile, Miles nodded. It was the least he could do as a last gesture of love for the only family he had left.

 

Their goodbye was short, filled with tears and hugging and promises of return and victory. Once his sisters’ figures disappeared into the darkness before him, Miles turned away from the city border, and headed back deeper within Central-- towards the heart of the danger, but also, towards what may be the single spark of hope Amestris had.

It took several wrong turns and a deep fear of getting lost until he finally found his way back to the Assassins headquarters. It was so unassuming and normal, not to mention Miles had not seen the building from the front yet, he had a difficult time getting back. Eventually, however, he found the marked door-- alike in shape and color with the other back doors of surrounding buildings, yet different in that it bore the symbol of his new colleagues.

Finally having somewhat of a moment’s rest, he paused to examine the symbol. It was nothing hostile, yet nothing friendly, having both sharp and rounded edges. It was familiar in a way, too, since the basic shape of it could be simplified down to an unconnected triangle.

He remembered not only seeing it on Olivier’s finger, but also on the back of her cloak. He had gotten a good look at it as he tailed her earlier that afternoon, so he was able to put two and two together that they were one in the same.

Her cloak, however, _was_ more aggressive. While the basic shape was present, there were more, sharp spikes, plus what Miles could only describe as the dragon typically upon the Amestrian flag, on its side. He wasn’t sure why there was a difference; but he made sure to file the question away for later, perhaps whenever he saw Buccaneer again, or if Olivier seemed to be in a good mood. While the large brute of a man seemed friendly and welcoming enough, he couldn’t quite get a read on the woman-- not yet, at least.

It was then, he rapped quietly on the door. Almost immediately, it creaked open, revealing said brute from within.

“Glad you made it back in one piece!” Buccaneer greeted happily, opening the door further to allow Miles inside.

“No thanks to her,” Miles mumbled, part of him not necessarily wanting Buccaneer to hear him.

“What did she do?” The other man asked, shutting the door behind them. The building opened into a long hallway, with rooms branching off from either side. Miles vaguely remembered this area from the tour he had earlier.

“Pushed me off the roof into a big pile of hay,” the quarter-Ishvalan groaned, stretching, several vertebrae in his back popping for good measure.

Buccaneer smiled at him, giving him a friendly clap on the back that would not have been painful without the fall Miles took, “Ah, your first leap of faith?”

“Is _that_ what you call it?”

Buccaneer didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm, “That’s what it’s always been called. It’s one of the things performed at our initiations, she must think highly of you for her to have you do it so early in your training.”

“What’s the point of jumping off high places for a ceremony?”

“Well,” Buccaneer began, leading the way down the hall. “It’s a symbol of trust in your fellow Assassins, as well as an undying faith in the Creed. Plus,” he beamed back at the man following him, “The one you do for your actual initiation will be from much higher up, I assure you.”

Miles sighed, already exhausted just thinking about it, “I see.”

“You hungry?”

Miles looked up at the back of Buccaneer’s head, watching his braided ponytail swing back and forth with each step the large man took, “Starving.”

“Want to eat with us? Food is done,” he turned back to Miles once again, flashing him a friendly smile.

“Will Olivier be okay with that? I wouldn’t want to upset her.”

The Assassin snorted in reply, “Why would she be upset?”

“I wouldn’t want to.. Encroach on her space. She seems a little territorial.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Buccaneer replied, leading him into another hallway. “However, she would probably be even _more_ offended if you _didn’t_ join us. She’s accepted you as an initiate-- she may not act all warm and cuddly to you, but that doesn’t mean she won’t eventually come to see you as family.”

Heeding his words, and mulling over them for a moment, Miles eventually gave him a nod in reply; he was willing to try. As if on cue, awaiting the initiate’s agreement, Buccaneer opened the door to the dining area.

Olivier was the first thing his eyes locked on to. She was sitting at the table, pouring over some papers just as she had done earlier in what Miles guessed was her personal office, causing him to wonder if that was literally all she did. She didn’t look up when another blonde woman set a plate down in front of her.

“Doc!” Buccaneer’s boom of a voice sent a jolt of alarm through Miles, who had not been expecting the volume. At his summons, the blonde stranger looked up at the two of them, flashing a small smile.

“Hey, you must be Miles, huh?” She greeted, turning away from the table and a very distracted Olivier. She wore an apron heavily-stained with different colors of food spills, and as her smile wavered, she extended a hand for Miles to shake.

He did so, grateful for another friendly face besides that of Buccaneer, “Pleased to meet you, Doc...?”

She nodded, “I’m the resident medic. And the cook, and the historian, and sometimes the maid. Can you believe they don’t pay me for this shit?”

Miles blinked, hearing Olivier give a snort from the table behind the other blonde.

Still smiling slightly, her demeanor comfortable, Doc gestured to an empty chair at the long table, “Make yourself comfortable. Got any food allergies or a diet I should know about?”

Upon him shaking his head, she gave a curt nod in reply, “Alright, I’ll get your food ready, then.”

Miles quietly took his seat, his silence being his attempt at politeness. Without any form of warning, Buccaneer plopped himself down beside the Ishvalan, nonchalantly leaning across the table and snatching an uneaten piece of bread from the distracted Olivier’s plate.

“I was eating that,” the woman said, her eyes trained on the papers in front of her.

“Sorry, sir,” Buccaneer apologized, yet the way he instantly took a bite out of the food plus the absence of any form of anger from Olivier told Miles that this behavior was normal banter between them.

“Here you go,” Doc piped up from beside him before carefully sliding his plate onto the table. Immediately afterwards, she set a mug of what looked and smelled like hot coffee down to pair with the meal.

“Thank you,” Miles replied respectfully, first taking the mug in both hands and giving it a sip. Instantly, the bitter, gravelly taste hit him, causing the liquid to sit in his mouth, his body hesitating in swallowing it.

With her nose still turned down to the papers, Miles noticed Olivier’s icy eyes dart up in his direction as soon as he took a drink, “Not very good, huh?”

He forced the coffee down, trying to keep his expression even, “I, um.. Tend to enjoy my coffee differently, but--”

It was now when he noticed no similar mugs in front of the other two Assassins at the table.

“That’ll be one-hundred cenz, please,” Doc chimed, extending an empty palm to him.

“Doctor, I would appreciate it if you didn’t try to swindle pocket change out from our new recruit,” Olivier warned, shooting the other blonde a narrow glare. This earned her a pout from the doctor as she straightened, removing her hand from Miles’s space.

The blue gaze shot back over to Miles suddenly, drawing his attention from his not-great cup of coffee back up to her. “So,” she began, finally beginning to pick at her food, “You made it back without getting caught by any soldiers, I see.”

He nodded in response, “My sisters asked for me to walk them to the city’s edge, so that’s what I did.”

She nodded slightly, acknowledging his reply as she took a bite of the food he did not recognize. He glanced down at his own, wondering if then was the good time to begin eating, or if Olivier was about to ask him something.

“Try it,” Buccaneer spoke suddenly, nudging Miles gently.

“What is it?” He asked, genuinely curious as he pierced some with his fork, lifting it.

“Beef stroganoff,” Buc replied proudly. “It’s one of the main dishes that are made in the north.”

That explained why he didn't recognize it. Recalling the Assassin’s information about how they had moved down to Central from the northern region, Miles nodded, giving it a try. It was a strange and new taste, yet not unpleasant-- so he took a second bite.

“Your training will begin tomorrow,” Olivier suddenly said, her eyes on him once again. “Is that fine with you, Buccaneer?”

“Huh?” The man asked, his question muffled by a mouthful of food.

“Miles’s training. It will begin tomorrow. Yes?”

He swallowed, his normally confident tone much less so, “Uhm. I can’t train him, sir.”

Eyes made of frozen daggers narrowed once again, “Why not?”

“I mean, unless you want him to be all muscle, I can’t train him to do the normal Assassin stuff. You know I don’t have the agility,” Buccaneer continued, slightly apologetic, as if he knew he was right yet he did not wish to prove Olivier wrong. “I’m the brute force of our squad for a reason. If I tried sneaking up on someone for a stealth kill, it would take me ten years.”

Olivier seemed to take a moment to consider, yet the other Assassin continued before she had a chance to speak, “Why can’t you train him, sir? You’re the only one here who can, unless you want to send him up north.”

Miles tensed; that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to be in the middle of the fight, on the front lines, close to the enemy-- and, as Buccaneer had said, the whole point of the Assassins being in Central rather than North was for them to do just that.

“No,” Olivier spoke, causing Miles to hold in his sigh of relief. “I suppose I’ll have to, since we have no one else. It’ll take a lot of my time, so I hope you’re ready for some more book work, Doctor.”

Doc, who had already served herself and seated, nodded between bites of her own stroganoff. She gave a grunt of affirmation, relishing in the meal, leading Olivier to roll her eyes slightly.

The lead Assassin pushed her empty plate away from herself, gathering the papers in front of her and straightening them, “Well then, Miles. Seems you’ll be having me to teach you the ropes.”

He nodded, watching as she stood, making her way past the table. As she rounded the corner of the wooden piece of furniture, she shot him a cold look, “Whether that makes you lucky or not remains to be seen.”

He kept his eyes on her long after hers left him, her figure turning away and quietly exiting through the nearby door, her gait regal; powerful despite her smaller frame. Only after a few beats past her exit did he turn back to the half-eaten plate in front of him.

“You gonna eat that?” Buccaneer's inquisitive tone broke Miles’s train of thought. He shook his head slightly; he didn’t have much of an appetite anymore-- it was in knots.

Why, he wasn’t sure. His mind swirled with excitement, but also with a newfound nervousness and fear. He wasn’t convinced Olivier was trying to kill him any longer, but now he questioned her training methods-- would they be so brutal he _wished_ he was dead? Or would she be uncaring towards him, paying no mind if he failed a stealth exercise and got caught in the middle of a group of armed soldiers?

“Are you okay?” The doctor spoke up this time, and upon glancing over at her, Miles saw her eyebrows knit in concern.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he mustered up a smile, though Doc seemed to see right through the facade.

“Don’t worry about Olivier, okay? She takes good care of all of us, she’s honestly the best mentor you could ask for here,” her smile was genuine, and while Miles did not believe she was lying or sugar-coating anything, he felt no surge of new hope within him.

“Thank you for the meal. I, ah, I can wash my plate,” he began, standing.

“I’ve got it,” Doc waved a hand dismissively at him, her small smile returning. “You’re gonna need to get some rest, so you go on now.”

Giving her a grateful nod, he pushed in his chair, “Buccaneer, which bed should I take?”

“That room you first came in on the top floor is free, if you want,” the other man replied, his mouth full, and his words only somewhat understandable. “It’s big and empty, so you can set up the belongings you brought with you. Or, you can sleep in the room with multiple beds, if that makes you feel safer.”

“I’ll take the first one,” Miles replied, heading for the door. He peered out, looking both ways down the hall before Buccaneer called out to him, amusement in his voice--

“Stairs are to the right.”

“Thank you,” Miles mumbled, slightly embarrassed at his own forgetfulness, before heading down the hallway. It was not difficult for him to find said stairs, and while it took a few minutes for him to find the room once on the top floor, it was not long before he got ready for bed.

He closed the window, drawing the curtains in front of it before he got his single set of spare clothes out of the bag he had brought from his childhood home. He undressed, hyper-aware of the window and the door, as if someone would unexpectedly barge in at any given moment. As he changed, he thought about his family’s house-- now unoccupied, him and his sisters did not have a chance to clean up before leaving. Cabinets and windows remained broken and in shatters in the rooms of the ground floor, picture frames left to collect dust. The room he had grown up in, frozen in a strange calm, the memories remaining with them to die. In that house, he had learned to read, and write. With that, his dream of becoming an author began, and with it were countless hours of schoolwork, countless numbers of papers written on, countless ink spills his mother had cleaned up; always shaking her head at him, but always smiling.

It was not often that their pictures were taken, since they had been too poor to ever afford a photographer, much less a camera for them to own, so pictures had been very special. Maisy and Gina took the single album the family owned, with Miles’s blessing, while he merely took one of the torn photos that had been ripped when a soldier knocked its frame off the wall. In it, was his mother, holding the hand of a young Miles, a baby in her other arm. He didn’t remember what year it had been taken, but his littlest sister could not have been a year old at the time. Beside his mother stood his father, one arm wrapped around his wife’s waist while the other held Gina, who had just become old enough to start calling herself a teenager, though she wasn’t _quite_ old enough for the title quite yet.

He didn’t notice himself sitting on his new bed, in his night clothes, holding the photograph, until a tear nearly fell onto it, causing him to jerk his head back in an attempt to keep it from dropping onto the photo and damaging it further. He sniffed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his sleeve as he set the photo next to his journal, which he had sat on the bedside table. Besides his personal items, an unlit lamp stood upon it. Other than that, there were no other items in the room; it seemed relatively well-kept for being so barren, but Miles didn’t quite mind.

He laid down, letting his head sink into the pillow before drawing the blanket up over him. Sniffling again, he held back the tears quite successfully; it had been a skill he learned long ago from years of bullying for the color of his skin, hair, and eyes. Once again, his thoughts returned to his childhood home-- while it wasn’t the home he had been born in, it was _his_ home. It wasn’t in the best of shape, or the biggest, since his family had to move in after his father’s death, but all that _wasn’t_ was made up for in the love his family shared. He and his siblings never had many toys or things to play with, but the ones they had, they cherished. Their mother played with them, despite her exhaustion from her work, and they all felt loved. He always knew some kids did not even have that, so he always tried to stay positive in his youth.

Yet, now, his mind was filled with the image of his home burning, set aflame by the hands of the state. It was most likely what was going to happen-- they would probably destroy the home, covering up the disappearance of the three siblings. Knowing that their men failed and they escaped, it made sure the three had no home to return to, and would strike fear in the hearts of others, causing them to believe the military had been successful in their culling; their memories set aflame and killed in a fire of hate.

Lost in his thoughts, they came to a screeching halt when he saw the shape of the Assassin clad in blue, the symbol of her creed and the crippled Amestrian dragon on her back, her embodiment symbolizing the fall of the government as it was. His heart thudded; amongst the flame, was the light of hope disguised as the darkness of death.

While he was not sure if he believed it entirely quite yet, in the loss of his childhood, he had found his new home.

 

A shove in the shoulder tore him from his deep, restful sleep, causing him to jump and sit up in alarm. He blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, until the shape of the Assassin leader finally materialized in front of him.

“What was that for…?” He asked, his speech slowed with tiredness.

“I tried to wake you up just by saying your name, but you wouldn’t budge,” came her stern reply. “Now, get up. It’s time to get moving.”

His world went dark again when she tossed what felt like a heavy cloak onto his head, “Now…? What are we doing? What time is it?”

“The time doesn’t matter,” he heard her say. He removed the cloak from his face to see her standing before him, clad in her own deep blue robes, a scarf over her mouth, the only features visible on her face being her eyes; a frigid glare.

“It’s time for your first day as an Assassin.”

 

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, enjoy some art of Olivier <3


	4. The Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter in a matter of hours x'D I've been so into this fic, and it's really nice. This chapter is a bit longer than normal, but I didn't want to split it into two, so I apologize!!
> 
> Please don't hesitate to leave a kudos if you haven't already, or a comment if you enjoyed! I really loved this chapter in particular so I hope you guys do too ;v;
> 
> Also sorry if I seem to make fun of Miles a lot in this fic. Everyone's gotta start out somewhere, he'll be badass before you know it.

He stumbled down the stairs, landing on his hands and knees, yet he was still too tired to care that much. 

Olivier, on the other hand, waited for him to pick himself back up again, eyeing him in annoyance, “If you’re going to be that clumsy, maybe we should rethink this new career choice of yours.”

“It’s just so dark!” Miles yawned, standing back up again with some effort. He still had no idea what time it was; he noticed Olivier had not turned any of the lights on yet. “Is the electricity not working?”

“Everyone is still asleep, the lights would wake them,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact as she continued down the hallway. “Your breakfast is already prepared and waiting for you. In the time I prepare what is needed for today’s lesson, I will expect you to have eaten and gotten dressed.”

“What am I supposed to wear?” The quarter-Ishvalan asked, quickly trying to match her pace down the hallway. He recognized the path she was taking as the way down to the dining area. 

“For now, you can borrow one of the spare hoods we keep to give refugees,” the blonde turned into the dining room, which was lit, unlike the rest of the building. “If you survive, you’ll get your own robes. Maybe.”

He rubbed his eyes, blindly feeling around for the doorframe as he heard the sound of china hitting wood. He took a moment to blink away the bright spots from his vision before seeing the Assassin roughly set a plate of food on the table. 

“Eat,” Olivier near commanded, icicles boring into his very soul. 

Practically frightened into silence, he nodded, suddenly very self-conscious of his appearance. Not only had he fallen down the stairs, but he was sure he looked like a true mess in that moment; in his sleep clothes, his hair down and tangled. To make matters worse, he was sure he felt dry drool on his chin. 

On the contrary, he finally got a good look at her in the artificial light. She was already fully dressed in her deep blue and monochrome robes, the fabric adorned with dark lace patterns. Her hair, unlike his, was not tangled, but long and flowing, concealing one eye. She did not wear the scarf over her mouth, so Miles was able to see her full lips, with what seemed like bright pink lipstick on them. All at once, the heat in his face grew stronger; from embarrassment or something else entirely, he did not know. 

How on earth did she have time to get fully done up? Did she even sleep?

In his stupor, he barely noticed her hang a hood on the back of the chair in front of which the plate of food sat. 

“You’d better pull yourself together and get moving, or I’ll be ready before you are,” she said, her tone almost snide in a way, before she turned and exited on the opposite side of the room. 

Afraid of what the consequences may be, he flew to the chair, nearly knocking it over, as he quickly began to eat. In his exhaustion and the speed of which he was downing the meal, he found it difficult to keep it down. However, he believed that it would be wise for him to have a full stomach and a nourished body throughout the day, given that he knew  _ surely _ some breed of hell would rain down on him in his training.

He barely took a moment to register what kind of food it was, but upon taking a short break to actually chew it for once, he noticed it was a simple plate of bacon and eggs. Off to the side, sat an apple. 

After a few seconds of thought slowed by lack of sleep, he realized that Olivier must have made it, since the doctor was still sleeping. He even entertained the sudden thought that it was probably poisoned and his first lesson was to not trust anyone you don’t know. 

Yet, the only sickness he felt was from his own body, punishing him for eating with such speed. He soon finished his plate, setting it in the sink-- while it was typical for him to wash his own dishes without being asked, he figured Olivier would probably destroy him if domestic household work was the reason he was ready after she was. 

He grabbed the hood in a fist, hurrying out of the room and back up the stairs to where he had slept. Skidding to a halt on the hardwood floor in front of his bed, he stripped himself of the sleep clothes, quickly dressing in the only other outfit he had. While it was dirty, he didn’t have much of a choice, so he donned them with haste before pulling on and securing the hooded cloak around his shoulders.

Stealing a quick glance at the small photo he had set on his bedside table, he wondered if his mother was watching him. Would she be proud, or would even the  _ thought _ of her only son being an assassin disappoint her?

He pushed the thought away as he sped to the bathroom, paying no mind to any self care routines in favor of time. Instead, he simply splashed some cold water on his face, to not only wake himself up, but to hopefully shock the food back down into his stomach where it belonged. 

Nearly tripping down the stairs again, he found Olivier at the back door of the building, leaning against the wall and waiting for him.

Miles braced himself against the same wall, panting heavily, fear beginning to course through him, “I’m so sorry, I tried to hurry, but--”

She waved a hand dismissively, silencing him, “You’re all ready?”

He nodded, saying nothing. 

“Can you ride a horse?”

White eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “It’s been about ten years since the last time I did.”

“You’ll be fine, then,” Olivier nodded to herself before stooping and retrieving a large bag near her feet, which Miles had not noticed thanks to the darkness. She hoisted it over her shoulder, and he had half a heart to offer to carry it, yet he thought it best if he didn’t, in fear of insulting her strength. 

“Let’s get going,” she said, opening the door and exiting. He followed closely behind her, soon noticing that the sun wasn’t even beginning to rise yet. Without a shred of light in the sky, and the main roads of the city a bit farther away with no closer street lamps in sight, there was nothing to illuminate their way. 

“Our destination is a bit of a ways out of the city, so we’ll be picking up some of the horses for the ride out,” Olivier began as she set forth, the initiate close behind her. “We’ll be taking a few back routes to where they’re kept, so just follow close behind me.”

He nodded, acknowledging the plan, “Is that why we’re out so early? So no one notices us leaving?”

He saw her shake her head, the golden strands of silken hair waving behind her as she did so, “Your training will take place all day, so while that’s partially true, it’s mainly so that we have a large chunk of time to work on the basics while we’re out. We’ll start heading back when it gets dark.”

While eating was the last thing on his mind thanks to his upset stomach, he still silently asked when they would be eating, or  _ if  _ they would be eating, and if there would be any breaks. Mainly, however, he wanted to ask what the training would be about and what his first lessons would consist of. 

Yet, he did not. Instead, he remained silent as he trailed behind her, staring at her figure in the darkness. As he stared more and more, he began to feel guilty, yet he knew he was simply focusing on her just so he wouldn’t lose sight of her; her shadowed clothes camouflaging her in the darkness before the dawn. 

Eventually, they reached the place he noticed her drop off Princess when he was following her the day prior. Along with the white mare stood a deep gray one, her own head hung low in slumber. As the two stepped near them, Princess whinnied a greeting, gently waking the other  beside her. 

Miles watched as Olivier lifted a hand to the horse, gently stroking her jaw before she set to work getting her ready for riding. He watched for a moment as she collected the reins, saddle, and so on, before he spoke up, “I’m not sure how to get the other one ready.”

He noticed her glance over at him, and for once, she did not seem angry or annoyed, “Go ahead and get one of everything that I’m getting. Then, I’ll show you.”

He did as she told, removing sets of straps he did not know the names of from the wall of the building, which the horses could use as shelter if they wished. The small wooden structure was a little out-of-place in the city, yet not so out of place as it would be if it were deeper inside, closer to Central Command. It made more sense being on the outskirts where it was, which was probably why no one had questioned its presence in such a seemingly modernized location. 

With a patience he didn’t know she had, Olivier explained to him what each piece of equipment was, where it went on the horse, and what other pieces it attached to. He had always been a fast learner, so he was pleased when he only made one mistake, and while Olivier didn’t exactly seem impressed with him, she surely harbored no negative emotions in that moment, to his relief. 

With the horses prepared for riding, Olivier attached her bag to the saddle before expertly mounting hers. She paused, glancing back at Miles as if she was waiting for him. She had no problem getting up on the saddle, and he was taller than her, so he thought he’d have no issues. 

Except he did, by nearly losing his balance and almost landing flat on his back. He caught himself at just the right moment, his horse not caring about his fumble in the slightest. Saving himself from the further embarrassment, he did not look at Olivier; instead, he tried again, this time successfully getting up onto the saddle. 

“Horseback riding is the least of your worries,” the blonde began, urging her horse forward. Without needing Miles to do the same, the dark gray horse he rode immediately followed behind Princess. “It’ll be a skill you learn naturally over the course of your training. We travel back and forth from the city quite often.”

Miles nodded; while he wished he could find reassurance in her words, he only grew more suspicious as to  _ why _ and  _ how _ she wasn’t angry with him yet-- especially since, he thought with a sinking feeling, that he hadn’t really done  _ anything _ right quite yet. 

At this realization, he was filled with a determination to prove himself to her. 

By the time they were completely clear of the city, the sun had finally started to rise. Around that time, Olivier instructed Miles to pick up the pace, so they had the horses move quicker into a canter. At this speed, they reached their destination shortly. 

It was a small, seemingly empty plot of farmland, save for a few fences and a barn. Olivier seemed to sense his confusion almost instantly, so she spoke up;

“This used to be my family’s farm when I was little. Since then, we’ve purchased new, more developed acres farther East, so this place is abandoned now.”

He nodded, listening politely as she spoke, “Do you guys still own the place?”

It was her turn to nod, “My father hates selling land he owns, since he doesn’t really see the need to. It’s not like he’s running low on money. We have a servant come out every once in a while to work on the upkeep just so it doesn’t look like shit, but they know about the brotherhood, so I never need to worry about getting found out when I come out here.”

Miles chose his next words carefully as he eyed the area, the horses beginning to slow down, as if they knew they had arrived, “Do you not like your father?”

He didn’t expect her to answer, given how personal the question was, but he was pleasantly surprised when she did. She brought Princess to a halt, hopping off of the saddle, “I love him like I love the rest of my family, but I try to steer clear of him. There are things he wants me to do and become that I don’t agree with.”

“What would that be?” Miles asked, awkwardly getting off his own horse before leading it to where Olivier had parked the other.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, when it comes to wealthy families. He wants me to be married to a rich, older suitor with purebred children already.”

Miles blinked in surprise, “ _ Multiple _ children, already? How old are you?”

“Very funny,” she growled, at what was not meant to be some sort of quip. She looked so young, Miles hadn’t said what he did with hidden rudeness or joking behind it, “He wanted me to wed at eighteen.”

“I see,” Miles quieted down, looking down at his feet, the atmosphere uncomfortable. She retrieved the bag from Princess’s saddle, slinging it over her shoulder and setting out towards one of the fenced-in fields. 

The Ishvalan followed obediently, a question coming to him, yet not one he was entirely sure he wanted to ask, “So, you obviously didn’t want to get married, and by the way you speak of it, it sounds like you’ve gotten your wish thus far… If you had it your way, what would you have done?”

“Believe it or not,” she began, setting the bag down against a tree stump that looked like it had been there since antiquity. “I wanted to join the military.”

“Really?” Miles asked, watching as she opened the bag and produced several weapons. First, she inspected a blade, before shaking her head and eyeing what looked like the common vambrace. 

She gave a nod, distracted by the weapons and whatever was going on in her mind, “My father had been a general in the military years ago. He would always tell me about noble and glorious war stories, of saving people, and defending the nation. I wanted to help people, too, but when I grew old enough to apply to the Central Military Academy, he forbade me from doing so.”

While her voice was even, he somehow could tell that there was a deep aching pain behind her words. He wished to somehow comfort her, “You’re helping people  _ now _ .”

Olivier, expressionless, straightened with a simple dagger in her hand, “I suppose it did work out for the better. If I had joined, I would be trapped in servitude under the unfair regime our government is held by now. In my father denying me of joining the military, he in a way allowed me to create something greater.”

Miles smiled slightly, and while it was not a gesture returned by the Assassin, he hoped she knew _ he  _ believed the decision she made was the right one.

“My brother wasn’t so lucky,” she began again, setting the dagger on the stump. Without looking at him, she walked past him to the barn close by, momentarily returning, dragging several old and heavy sacks of animal feed behind her. “He joined the military, but his heart was too soft. He has the same ideals as I do, but he’s bound by contract and law to remain in the service. Every day, he’s forced to kill innocent people.”

“That sounds awful,” Miles spoke softly, unable to imagine how horrible it must be. He supposed, though, being one of the ones nearly killed was equally, if not more, horrible. 

Olivier shrugged, “One good thing that comes out of it, though, is that he is one of the three people aware of the brotherhood. He comes to me with classified military information whenever he can, in hopes that maybe he can end up saving at least  _ some _ lives through us.” 

Miles watched her stack the three sacks in silence, mulling over the information he was just given. Now, it made sense how the Assassins knew as much about the military’s inner-workings as they did. It gave him even more hope that they were an extremely-organized group with actual intelligent planning and specific steps in their process, rather than just some bloodthirsty radicals. 

“That’ll do,” he heard her mutter to herself, before turning back to him. “What kind of weapons are you at least somewhat familiar with?”

“Uhm,” he blanked. 

“Answers my question,” she sighed, taking the dagger in her hand before extending it to him. “We’ll get you used to the small ones first. Melee weapons, especially blades, can be equally as important and deadly as firearms. Especially in our line of work, where guns cause noise and panic and a mess, blades are fast, silent, and clean, if you use them right.”

He took it from her, weighing it in his hand for a moment. 

“I’ll teach you guns, too, but blades are first. They are at the heart of our order, after all,” he watched in respectful awe as she flexed her left hand, a blade shooting forth from her thick vambrace, just as it had done when she killed the guard the first time Miles saw her. It looked exactly like a dagger, yet her hand was free, and she held onto nothing. 

“While the hidden blade is primarily for stabbing, as I’m sure you saw, it behaves and physically looks like a dagger with no handle. It is an extension of oneself, and, when mastered, stealth killing an enemy can be seen a single touch of an open palm.  _ If _ you’re even seen at all.”

She demonstrated several stabs and slices from her own blade, using the three stacked sacks of feed as a training dummy. He watched, entranced with the fluidity and grace of her movements, all while still aware of how purely deadly and swift said movements were. 

She allowed him to mirror her, letting him have a go at the dummy. She stopped him after he took his stance, before even allowing him to slice, to correct his posture. Circling around him, her eyes glued to him, he suddenly felt overcome with embarrassment once again. He was not sure why-- these feelings were very unlike him. 

She stood behind him for a good moment, before startling him with one of her feet in between his. Not gently nor roughly, she nudged his foot to the side, causing him to feel a drop in his stomach. 

“Which foot is your dominant one?”

“What do you mean?” He levelled his voice.

“Which do you typically step off first with?”

He responded, saying his right, to which she had him switch his stance to the opposite side. Once again, she corrected his foot placement.

“Now, try it.”

She watched as he attempted attacks several times, before changing what it was he should do. She instructed him to feel as if the blade was not a weapon or a tool, but a part of his arm. 

“The hidden blade is an integral part of our order. I’m having you start with a simple blade for now, but before you upgrade to the actual hidden blade itself, you must feel as if it a part of you. This is so important, our ancestors would amputate their ring fingers in order to give the blade a clear shot of stabbing the opponent.”

“That seems very drastic,” Miles responded nervously, taking a stab at the dummy and watching pellets of feed fall from it. 

“It was, which is why the mechanism in the vambrace was eventually tinkered with and changed. While the finger no longer needs to be cut off, it remains a deeply spiritual symbol of devotion to the creed, and to those who find less importance in it, they simply get branded on the finger instead,” she corrected his stance again, yet focusing on a different part of his body this time. She laid one hand on the small of his back, with her other palm pressing flat against his chest. She urged him to stand straighter, yet he could only hope his blush was not visible. 

“Why didn’t you cut your finger off?” Miles asked. 

“I have my personal reasons,” Olivier said strangely quickly, her tone masking whatever her reasoning was. “Try a stab again.”

They continued in this training for several hours, Olivier eventually switching him to a new kind of weapon, like a shortsword, or dual, shorter daggers. Noon soon came, as told by the sun hanging in the sky directly above them, when the Assassin suddenly paused. 

“Is everything alright?” Miles asked, panting. She had just taken up her own sword and had exchanged a few dueling swings with him to test how far he’d come with the longer blade, to his initial fright. While it had been a given that she was good with weapons, he never expected her prowess to lie in swordsmanship specifically. She surely did not hold back; in his few hours of training, she had years-- and it showed, as she suddenly stopped the blade just short of slicing open his neck, right before dropping her stance and strolling back towards the large bag.

“Yes,” she replied simply, sheathing her sword. “You can take a break while I prepare what you will do next.”

To even more of his surprise, he watched as she produced a small knapsack from the bag, opening it to reveal some small, portable food items. 

Wordlessly, she offered it out to him. He was instantly overjoyed; the food from breakfast having successfully been burned off during his vigorous training. However, he kept his cool, calmly taking the food before thanking her.

She pointed out a shaded treeline nearby, ordering him to go sit and not watch what she was doing. Ready to obey whatever command she gave him so long as he had the food at this point, he happily walked over to the shade, sitting down against a tree. 

While he  _ was _ curious as to what she was doing, he did not go against her wishes, so he instead turned his attention to the food. They were petite, tasty-looking sandwiches, seemingly so delicate, it made him second-guess that it was Olivier who had made them. 

About thirty minutes passed before she came to get him, leading him back to the barn and the field. Even from the trees, he could see the work she had done-- now, instead of one sack dummy, there were about thirty all set up in the grass. 

“Our first tenant is  _ stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent _ . In this exercise, I will give you clues as to who your target is, and with them, you must take them out with a dagger. Each dummy has something different about it, whether it is a tear in the sack, a label on the fabric, or so on. If you stab the wrong one, you will fail. Do you understand?”

He looked down at her to see her frigid glare had returned. Revitalized by the good-tasting food, he nodded dutifully. 

She went over to the stump and sat down upon it before crossing one leg over the other, her posture wholly regal, “Your target is an older, wealthy, bureaucratic cripple. He tends to stay out late at night, partying with women, though he often loses track of the time. He isn’t very intelligent, so when people scold him for his late nights out, he often claims that where he lives, it gets dark before everywhere else, therefore their sense of time is flawed.”

Miles stood, his mouth agape with his brows knit together. He was silent for a few beats, trying to comprehend what the hell the woman had just said, “... Olivier? These are sacks of feed.”

“Yes, and you must kill one. The  _ correct _ one,” she blinked up at him coolly.

“You could just say stab the one with the hole that’s got the cartoon pig on it!” He said, louder than he would have liked. 

“Do not raise your voice,” Olivier’s eyes narrowed, nearly sending a chill through him. “Often times, the descriptions we are given of our targets could be as simple as “ _ he has a cough _ ” on a day where his lung condition isn’t flaring up, making the information completely useless to us. You must be wise and intelligent, using any scrap of intel you can get to take down who you need to take down.”

Miles let his shoulders sag with a sigh. He had no earthly idea how he was going do pull this off, “Yes, Olivier.”

“Also, you have thirty minutes. He has a meeting tomorrow, so he has to get to bed early.”

“Why can’t I kill him at the meeting tomorrow?”

“He’s a bureaucrat, the government building he’ll be in is guarded by soldiers armed to the teeth.”

“You really thought of everything, didn’t you?” Miles asked, deadpan.

Olivier simply smiled slyly at him; the first smile he had ever seen from her causing him to want to stop and stare, yet he did not. 

Instead, he started walking in between the rows of dummies, dagger now in hand. He paused to inspect each and every one yet the physical presence of the sacks yielded no answers. Several had large tears in them, while some were topped off with sacks that were simply fabric with no more feed in them. A few were turned perpendicular to others, yet their orientation to one another did not seem to make a difference. 

He groaned defeatedly, running through her clues once again. All of the sacks were old, so the  _ older _ descriptor didn’t help his search. Wealthy and bureaucratic did not make sense either, since, Miles guessed, the retail value of each sack was the same, since the owners of the land were a wealthy family. 

Perhaps he was taking it all too literally. He began to think about physical differences between the rich and poor, when he suddenly got an idea. 

Older, richer folk were often characterized by being heavier-set, where the poor-- and he had seen a lot of poor people in his days-- were skinnier. He spun around, looking at all of the dummies around him. Some of them  _ were _ noticeably larger while others were thinner, yet that was not specific enough to land him the information of which one was his target. 

Crippled may have been the easiest clue to figure out, since some bags were torn, while others were not. He made his way back through the ranks, taking note of which ones were fat and torn. There was no way to measure the intelligence of non-sentient things such as feed sacks, but perhaps the partying clue had an answer. The items did not have genders, either, but there had been something specific in the way Olivier had said his target partied with women…

Wealthy men in the novels Miles used to read always had flocks of women at their beck and call, so he thought about the imagery of that cliche for a moment. He glanced around the field once again, seeing that some sacks were stacked in small, close groups to one another. 

That being a possible clue, he made his way to several groups, finding that two of them each had a fat, torn sack on the top of the dummies in the centers. These dummies, while being the closest to the target he was looking for, were actually completely the same physically speaking. 

His eyes wandered over to Olivier, who he noticed was watching him intently. Their gazes met, and she lifted one arm, tapping her wrist as if she was wearing a watch; warning him that his time was growing short. 

The last main clue he had was that his target lived where it got dark before everywhere else. Being in the same geographical area, it was not like there was the shade of trees to mimic the passing of night and day. He leaned against one of the dummies, fully stumped, trying to think of the cycle of light and dark. 

The only thing that came to mind was the passing of the sun and moon in the sky, and how their orientations changed depending on the time. Miles looked up at the sun, now just past its noon point, and back down at where it was now beginning to cast small shadows. He then turned his attention back up once again, glancing at the two prime suspects; suddenly realizing that they were at complete opposites of the field. 

_ The moon rises in the east and sets in the west, _ he though with a sudden surge of hope. His gaze immediately locked onto the fat, torn, popular dummy on the eastern side of the field, and in an instant, he was beside it. 

He thought over his clues one final time. He looked to Olivier, as if she would ever give him some sort of affirmation, she watched him blankly, waiting to see what he would do. 

Turning back to the dummy once again, Miles drew in a deep breath. If he was wrong and he failed the exercise, he wasn’t sure what would happen. 

Either way, he was about to find out. 

He gripped the blade, holding it out straight from his hand, closing his eyes. He pictured his hand as the knife as he stabbed the sack, feeling the old horse feed spill out over his wrist and onto his feet. 

He waited a moment to see if Olivier would call over to him, but she did not. He opened his crimson eyes, glancing over at her, just to see her stand and make her way over to him. 

In his nervousness, her walk seemed to take an eternity until she was before him. She crossed her arms over her chest, staring up at him for a moment before the smug smile returned.

“I’m surprised you got that.”

Miles did not even attempt to hold back his heavy sigh of relief, “How much time did I have left?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t keeping track,” the blonde nearly chirped, spinning on her heels and heading back over to the stump. She bent down, retrieving both of their swords once again. 

“Let’s have another go, shall we?”

 

Miles just wanted to fall over and curl up into a ball forever. 


	5. The One Among Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very expository, so I apologize x'D It's just a lot of character building and I was in a hurry to finish so I didn't edit it a whole lot. 
> 
> Still, I hope you guys enjoy it, and as always, please don't hesitate to leave a kudos and/or a comment if you did! <3

While the remainder of their day of training was very eventful and he was excited to share what he learned with Buccaneer, who Miles felt would become his only friend, the quarter-Ishvalan could barely keep his eyes open on the ride home. 

Thankfully, he didn’t have to pay attention to where he was going, since the gray horse he was riding-- who Olivier told him was named Pebble-- needed no direction, simply following Olivier’s horse in the dim light of the fading sunset. One thing Miles neglected to notice in his exhaustion was the fact that the Assassin constantly looked back at him, making sure he hadn’t silently slipped off of his horse.

His body was sore, and he felt disgusting from the sweat, though he was sure the pain would be much worse the following day. The muscles in his arms and legs burned, his head lolling as he tried to keep himself awake. They reached their headquarters at dusk, Buccaneer greeting the two at the door before almost immediately speaking with Olivier. About what, Miles did not pay attention. 

The doctor had prepared dinner, and while he quietly muttered his thanks, Miles did not partake in any conversation over the meal. He was starved; the lunch Olivier had prepared wore off long ago, so he felt slightly more awake after dinner. He knew this newly-found burst of energy would not last long, though, since he most of all needed sleep rather than food.  

Olivier excused herself first, slipping out the door that lead to the direction of her office. Shortly after her, Miles finished his food, turning to Buccaneer, “Would you guys mind if I showered?”

“Not at all! You don’t need to ask permission,” the large Assassin gave the initiate a friendly smile. “There’s two bathrooms on either side of the building, Neil and I usually use one while Doc and Olivier use the other. So you’re welcome to ours.”

Nodding his thanks, Miles left the table, Doc shooing him away when he attempted to wash his dish. He remembered where the ‘men’s’ bathroom was from the tour Buc had given him, so he made his way there after a brief detour to his room to retrieve his sleep clothes. 

The bathroom was a nice, larger size, and the first thing he noticed was the tall shower head. He was sure it was because of Buccaneer-- he wasn’t sure how tall Neil was, but he knew he couldn’t be larger than the bear of a man, with the latter being practically the maximum human height-- but he was still instantly thankful. The bathroom at his childhood home had been small, and while his sisters had no issues with the height of the shower and the size of the tub, Miles was always too tall to easily shower, and too large to actually take baths. 

He got out of his clothes, momentarily wondering how he would get them washed, since he had no others he could wear.  _ Surely _ Olivier would have him out doing things tomorrow. He would probably have to wear the somewhat-unsavory outfit once again, but he would be sure to ask her about how he would go about washing them. 

He nearly fell asleep in the shower, the warm water hitting and in a way massaging his aching back. Waiting for a bit, Miles allowed the room to fog up, the nice heat now even throughout the enclosed space, before he started searching for soap. 

The one he found was slightly feminine-smelling, and with an amused smile, he thought of how it must be Buccaneer’s. He wouldn’t put it past him; he seemed like a man so sure and comfortable with who he was, he didn’t care how girly he may smell at times. It  _ was _ a good smell, after all; Miles couldn’t blame him.

He began to use the soap, ready to inform Buccaneer the following day that he borrowed it-- Miles would be sure to buy him a new one, since he had just enough money for it, and he did not have to worry about feeding himself and two sisters any more. 

With not many thoughts running through his head thanks to the comfort the water brought him in addition to his exhaustion from the day, Miles eventually got out of the shower, promptly drying off and getting ready to sleep. 

Once he reached his room and he sat down on his bed, he was out before his head even hit the pillow.

 

To his surprise, he was not once again woken up before the sun had risen. Instead, Olivier came to get him at an actual,  _ realistic _ , human time. 

“Miles,” she spoke, nearly ready to shove him again. 

She, however, did not need to, since he woke up after his first summons, blinking up at her sleepily. The first thing he noticed about her was her lack of the dark Assassin robes, in favor of more comfortable, casual attire. 

“It’s time for you to get up, you can’t sleep all day.”

He nodded without argument, slowly sitting up, “What are we going to do today…?”

“You’re just going to help Buccaneer with some maintenance around the place,” she replied. “What size of clothes do you wear?”

Miles blinked, unsure if he actually heard her question correctly, given the lack of a transition from one subject to the other, “Why do you ask?”

“I was going to go out today and get you some, since it looks like you only have the two outfits,” he saw her gaze dart down to his nearly-empty bag.

“Oh,” he blinked once again, red eyes looking up at the Assassin in surprise. “You don’t have to do that--”

“I’m doing it,” she said coldly, expressionless as usual, though Miles couldn’t help but smile somewhat. Maybe she  _ did _ care after all, “I’m not sure, actually. I know my shirt is a large, but beyond that… All of my clothes are so old, I have no idea.”

Olivier looked down at him for a silent moment; Miles guessed she was trying to comprehend what that particular hardship must be like. Instead of responding, she straightened, turning to his door, “I’ll be right back, then.”

Briefly, she left him alone in his room, sitting upright in his bed, trying to yawn away the remainder of sleep his body desperately held onto. At least one thing was for sure; he did not feel as gross and groggy as he had yesterday morning. The shower had definitely helped.  

When Olivier returned, she carried a small notepad and a tape measure with her, “Could you get up?”

He did so, pausing for a fraction of a second to stretch his spine, before fully straightening. His heart seemed to skip a beat when, with no warning, Olivier nearly wrapped her arms around him, bringing the tape measure around his waistline. 

“ _ Hmm _ ,” he heard her hum in thought before she took the tape measure away, swiftly scrawling something on her notepad. He remained perfectly still, in fear of what her response would be if he reacted in any way, as she did the same to his chest, this time having to walk all the way around him to get an accurate measurement. 

This continued for a few more minutes, as she got measurements of his shoulders and, to his embarrassment and her lack of any emotion whatsoever, his back end. 

“That’s it,” she said suddenly after writing the last number down. “Get ready for the day, and when you’re dressed and you’ve eaten, Buccaneer should be in my office. He’s already up and working, so meet him as soon as you can, or I’ll find out about it.”

Miles nodded quickly, though the Assassin did not wait to see his confirmation before she left the room. 

Finally releasing the breath he had been holding, he got to work changing into his clothes. After the morning routine was finished, he went down to breakfast, quietly saying hello to the doctor as he entered the room. 

“Hey,” Doc happily returned the greeting, momentarily glancing at him before she continued washing dishes. “Your food’s on the table, but it may be a little cold now.”

“That’s alright,” Miles yawned, simply grateful for the extra sleep Olivier had allowed him. “Thank you.”

He sat as the doctor nodded, “So, what did she have you doing yesterday?”

“She didn’t tell you?” The initiate asked, taking the first bite of his food. It was cold, yes, but still very good nonetheless. 

He saw the blonde woman shake her head. “Nope, she’s awfully secretive. But, after a while, you get quite used to everything being a constant guessing game with her,” she gave a short, single exhale of a chuckle. 

“She took me out to her parent’s old property to train with some weapons,” Miles spoke after swallowing a bite, wasting no time in gathering another on his fork. “I mostly worked with daggers in preparation for a hidden blade; that, plus she taught me about the first tenant.”

“Ah, not killing innocents,” Doc replied, her tone solemn as if speaking an old sagely proverb, though her sentence had been greatly simplified from what Olivier had previously spoken. 

“She had me search through a field to find the right feed-sack dummy to kill, just with a few clues.”

He hadn’t expected her to chuckle, “Sounds like her. I’m kind of surprised you’re training with weapons so early on, though. And at her own, relatively private training area!”

Miles’s red gaze darted up to the doctor, who was now facing him with a smug smile, hands still wet from washing dishes as they rest on her hips. He gave a questioning hum, given that his mouth was now full of food. 

“She must _ really  _ have taken a liking to you!” Doc continued, smiling pleasantly, though Miles could detect a tone in her voice; one that caused his eyes to narrow somewhat. 

The doctor shrugged, the smile still placed comfortably on her face as she turned back around to her work, “Don’t give me that look. Granted, none of us have been trained to do  _ her specific  _ job, but she seems really ready to trust you with blade training so early.”

“You haven’t?” Miles asked, brows furrowed. “What  _ do _ you all do, anyway?”

“All of us are trained in the basics of combat, since it’s kind of the integral part of our order. Besides that, Buc is the only one of us to really mess with heavier weapons; that, plus you’ll never catch any of us with any blunt weapons besides him,” Doc said, using the back of her wrist to push the headband that held her hair up in place. “I don’t do any real  _ action _ things unless there’s something we are all needed for, like an attack on our headquarters, or something monumental like that. Neil mostly makes new things for us; he keeps maintenance on Buccaneer’s arm, upgrades our hidden blades, and so on. Buccaneer is also our brute of the brotherhood; he doesn’t have the agility to free run like we do, but he’s there for a mission just in case the stealth option fails and simple, pure force is needed.”

Miles listened, pausing in his meal to focus all of his attention on what was being said, “And there’s more of you up north, right?”

Doc nodded and began to dry her hands, though she paused before fully doing so, “We have an actual, fully-functioning base of operations up near the Drachman border. Hundreds of loyal men from every background imaginable.”

She seemed as if she was waiting for Miles to finish his meal, so he hastily took a bite to silently show her he wasn’t done quite yet. After the bite, he spoke again, before quickly taking another; “And what will I be?”

She smiled, “That’s for you to find out. With the sticktoitiveness you showed when you followed Olivier up onto the rooftops, and how you’re being trained so early on in your initiation to use the hidden blade, it seems like you and Olivier will be similar. She’s the jack of all trades; she’s got the stealth, the speed, and the strength.”

Nodding slowly, Miles finished his meal, handing the plate off to the waiting doctor, who instantly began cleaning it, “I have another question.”

Her back was turned to him, “Shoot.”

“Did you make my breakfast and lunch yesterday?”

Doc glanced back over her shoulder at him, “No, why?”

In turn, Miles blinked, expressionless, the realization hitting him, “No reason.”

“Did you even eat yesterday? I was a little worried when both you and Olivier were absent in the morning, until Buccaneer told me that Liv took you out training.”

“Yes, but… I guess she made the food,” the quarter-Ishvalan trailed off into silence once he saw the look on the Amestrian woman’s face. 

She looked like the cat that swallowed the canary, given how devious her smirk was, “ _ Ooooh _ .”

“What?” Miles asked, beginning to get irritated at the childish behavior. He knew she was simply trying to get a rise out of him, so he levelled his tone in an attempt to thwart her. 

“Isn’t she a great cook? I haven’t had her food in  _ years _ ; she doesn’t just cook for anyone. She was taught all of this gourmet stuff back when she still lived in her family’s household. I guess she  _ does _ really like you, huh?” 

“I’m leaving,” Miles sighed, standing and pushing in his chair. “Thanks for the meal.”

“Maybe with some smooth-talk, you can get the boss to cook for  _ all _ of us soon, huh?” Doc laughed happily, aware of Miles leaving in a flustered hurry. 

 

He found Buccaneer in Olivier’s office, sitting cross-legged on the floor with several tall stacks of paper in front of him. 

“Hey, Miles, over here!” The Assassin waved a metallic hand at the initiate over the papers. “Did Olivier send you to come help me?”

Miles nodded, “She said she was going to go out today, so I was to come help you with maintenance around the place.” 

He neglected to tell the other man _ why  _ Olivier was going out; to hopefully keep at least some of his dignity. 

“Fine by me,” Buccaneer smiled, moving some papers into new stacks. “I’m nearly done organizing stuff here. Next, I was planning on sharpening some of our weapons, so you can help me do that.”

“Could I ask you about something?” Miles asked, taking a seat to watch the Assassin. 

“Anything, pal.”

He was grateful that Buccaneer’s personality didn’t match his exterior. He was kind, but seemingly not as playful-- at Miles’s expense-- as the doctor, which suited Miles just fine. He liked her enough, but he didn’t need someone to make him feel  _ worse _ in regards to the way he thought about Olivier.

Which was a way he couldn’t quite put a finger on, or make sense of quite yet. Every other Assassin in Central seemed to be so easily-read; especially since the quarter-Ishvalan was typically very good at sensing what people were like. The head Assassin, however, he couldn’t pin-- she was cold and serious, but Miles could sense there was something hidden behind it all. What it was, he wasn’t sure. Even his own opinion of her, he wasn’t yet positive of-- he feared her in a respectful way rather than any sort of outright, innate terror. In addition, there was a strange draw; he wanted to learn more about her, and make sense of the secrets she so obviously held. 

“What was Briggs like? How did the brotherhood get started? Olivier said there were others before you all, so it couldn’t have been her who started it all…”

“Cold,” Buccaneer laughed as if he had just made the most clever joke the world had ever seen. “The area was very barren, and no one dared to come bother us due to how dangerous the climate and the location was. It would have been prime real estate for a secret organization’s headquarters, if it weren’t so far from said organization’s target.”

He stood, lifting a pile of papers onto Olivier’s desk, “We held up in an old military fort, so we had everything we needed. Old weaponry, defense, and a building big enough for our growing order. We had a few hundred men in-training, and Olivier led them all.”

Miles nodded, getting up and moving to assist in carrying stacks back and forth. 

“I was involved in an accident where I lost my arm at the hands of the military, but Olivier found me and asked if I wanted to join her. I was angry, so joining her cause kept my need for revenge in check, and through the brotherhood, I’m able to channel my hate for the injustice of the government into something actually organized and calculated, rather than something messy and brutal. That was still when her branch of the brotherhood was in its infancy, so I was one of the first initiates under her. It’s why she brought me down here with her, to Central,” he gave Miles a smile, straightening after placing the last stack on the desk. He motioned for the other man to follow him out the door; his destination now being the weapon storage room. 

“How did Olivier start this branch?” Miles asked, deeply invested now.

“Assassins had been extinct in Amestris for quite a long while, actually. Our order is traced all the way back to the civilization of Xerxes, and there’s a possibility that it existed even before then,” Buccaneer held the door open for Miles, the latter stepping inside, in silent awe of all of the shining metallic blades that were displayed on the walls and stands before him. 

“From what Olivier shared with me, one of the servants of her family used to tell her legends of a secretive and dangerous organization that clung to the shadows, killing in the name of free will and safety for those who were innocent. When Olivier was old enough, she travelled away from her family on a journey to study this organization, and she eventually stumbled upon sacred texts that spoke of the Assassin Order. She told her parents she had been going to school the whole time,” Buc chuckled to himself, retrieving a vambrace off a stand. Miles watched as, without having to pull it onto his forearm, the other man activated the blade in preparation to sharpen it. 

“She studied the tenants and the creed as a whole before seeking out a place to revive it. She then asked her parents to loan her some money for a purchase of land up in the Briggs mountain range to ‘start a business’, but what her parents did now know was that there was an abandoned military base on that exact plot of land, where our brotherhood was born.”

He tossed Miles a similar vambrace, showing him how to activate it. He did, flinching somewhat at the force with which the blade propelled out of the leather. 

“She did the same with this place, actually. Told her folks that her business had grown to the point of expansion, and practically having money to throw away, they bought out this building for our Central branch.”

“Her parents never asked her what her business was for?” Miles tilted his head, trying not to somehow cut himself on the blade as he moved it. 

“I think she always answers somethin’ vague, like manufacturing. Whenever they ask for progress, she gets Neil to make some random tool to bring and show them.”

“That’s actually pretty clever,” Miles smiled. “And they never ask to visit the locations they invested in?”

“They know Olivier likes keeping to herself, so whenever she answers that the manufacturing of her items is top-secret, they usually respect it without question. I think once, she told me her brother knows about it, and I know her mom’s smart, so she may suspect something. Her father is the guy you’ve got to worry about, though, and he seems oblivious to the whole deal.”

“I see,” Miles said under his breath as he watched Buccaneer work.

The rest of their day went calmly, which was a nice and needed change for Miles. His whole way of life had been turned upside-down in a matter of days, and while he had enjoyed training yesterday, his muscles positively  _ burned _ for the entirety of this one. He was able to sit and talk to Buccaneer, each of them taking turns discussing themselves and their lives. Miles told the other man about his family’s struggles with discrimination and money; of how his father died when he was young and his mother had a difficult time taking care of him and his sisters. In a moment of vulnerability, he told Buccaneer that, while he was comfortable with his choice to become an Assassin, he worried about what his mother thinked, if she were watching him from somewhere-- all at the risk of the other man laughing at him and calling him insane for believing in any sort of afterlife. 

He learned he had found a friend in Buccaneer when the Assassin smiled kindly at him, telling Miles that his mother would be proud that her son was working to save innocent people from the same fate as his father and, more indirectly, her as well. He told Miles he knew what it was like to grow up poor, and how he knew the struggle and the physical repercussions of the disparity in classes. He said that, while the Doctor and Olivier may be able to sympathize, he could more accurately _ empathize _ . 

Later in the day, Olivier returned with a large, stuffed bag. She had quietly greeted the two before making her way upstairs, and while Miles excitedly wanted to follow her to see the fruits of her day’s labor, he continued his work with Buccaneer. To his relief, that night at dinner, Doc said nothing out of the ordinary, with no scandalous remarks, and all went completely as planned. 

As Miles went into his room to get ready for bed, in the barren landscape that was his bedroom, he saw that his closet doors were open. Stepping over, he saw in stunned silence that it was filled with new clothes, all set up and ready to be worn. He glanced down, spotting a note on the floor. 

His curiosity the better of him, he knelt, retrieving it. In gorgeous script, it read  _ “Your robes will be ready in a few days’ time. Do not disappoint me before then.” _

His heart thudded as he let himself fall onto his mattress, the tears coming full-force, unable to hide his emotion. Inhaling deeply in an attempt to stifle the tears and overcome with a deep indebtedness towards Olivier, he felt a deep warmth from within his chest as he thought about this new family he had somehow stumbled into. 

It was dysfunctional, but so was every other. From the bearlike, kind-hearted man to the snarky and utility-focused doctor, to their pragmatic yet strangely altruistic leader, he knew for certain in that moment that he had found his home. 

And he would give his life to serve it. 


End file.
